Not Crazy, Just Misunderstood
by Lukeprism
Summary: In which Luke is an aspiring psychiatrist and Layton is in an asylum.  AU-ish, Layton/Claire-centric, T just to be safe. Epilogue is mainly light Layton/LegalLuke.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Yeah, so, this is what happens when I'm bored and I decide to play a random game on Kongregate. Based on a flash game, "The Company of Myself". Look it up at www (dot) kongregate (dot) com , it's a really moving game.**_

_**I don't own Professor Layton.**_

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I was staring at the scenery that we passed through the window. Brown, white, tan, red, all seemingly meshing together as a result of our speed. The bus would shake violently every so often as we passed over bumps in the road. I could hear voices all around me, chatting amiably away, some seeming excited at the prospect of reaching our destination.

But me, I didn't chat. I never did like to bother with formal chatter, as I had always found that the time spent with it could be used more efficiently elsewhere, like studying or reading, maybe even solving a puzzle or two.

Of course, maybe this isn't the way 14-year-old boys' minds were supposed to work. Most boys my age would be thinking about cars or sports, or a particular girl they liked. They'd be out, about, discussing things with friends, playing said sports, having fun. And those boys would be classified as normal.

I've never been sociable. I just can't seem to relate with others, think like they do. No one understands me, and I understand no one. It's been that way for a long time.

The day Mom died was the day my life changed.

For better or worse, though, who can say?

My father and I have never been close. When I was very small, he always found some excuse to get rid of me, be it with the numerous baby sitters I'd had or with Mom. It had always been like that, so I never really thought much of it then. He was just the man I saw every so often, the man my mother claimed was my father. When she died, I had thought (and hoped) that we would bond more, because each other was all we had left.

If anything, our relationship grew much worse.

Sometimes it would be days between the instances I saw him. I could only guess at where he would go during these periods. He would never look directly at me. When he did take a glance, I could see it. The pain. The grief. It made sense enough. Lots of people used to comment on how much I looked like my mother.

When I would tell him of the things I had accomplished that day, the most I would ever get was a clearly uninterested grunt.

When I would ask him what he'd done, he would just get up, take whatever it was he was working on with him, and shut himself in his office.

It confused me. It made me sad. It made me _angry_.

This man was my father. I was his son. It's a parent's responsibility to take care of their children, isn't it? To pay attention to them. To acknowledge their existence. To _love_ them.

I had become a ghost of the boy I had been, energetic and happy, curious and honest. I had become reclusive, distrustful, and depressed. But one trait I never lost was my intelligence.

Desperate for a way to connect to my father, I buried myself in school work. I went above and beyond, studying and reading material far above what was required. My marks improved. A lot. I had even been given awards for excellence several times.

I had also been shoved, threatened, ridiculed, a victim of robbery. My peers didn't respect intelligence as much as most adults did. All my teachers praised me greatly, even the principal. Our maid, who takes care of me properly for my father, was also very pleased. But none of that mattered.

No matter how many tests I aced, no matter how high my marks went, he never praised me, or even noticed, for that matter. Not once.

It was then that I had stopped trying. I'd given it everything I had, but it had all been fruitless in the end. I didn't let my grades slip. I was determined that if I couldn't impress my father, then I would impress the world.

...or at least myself.

Needless to say, I blame my current condition on that man. Laura, our maid, has given me everything she could, including her love, and for that, I'll always be grateful. But it isn't the same. It's not the same at all. It's not enough.

She can't be there all the time. She has a family, with a loving husband and two children of her own.

She's never there on holidays like Christmas. She doesn't know how little we really interact. Every Christmas since Mom passed away, it's been the same. Laura takes her 2 weeks off, and Dad locks himself away in his study all the time he's home. Not that he comes home often; he works through the holidays. Every Christmas I'd wake up to find a small pile of pounds and a hastily written note from my Father, something along the lines of, "Get yourself something nice."

I suppose, however, that I have to thank him. Had it not been for him, I might have never realized my true calling. Ever since I had given up, my mind has been made up as to what I'll do with my life. I couldn't let something like what I've experienced happen to someone else.

I'm going to be a psychiatrist.

Specifically speaking, family therapy. To help people who have lost loved ones, help them overcome their grief, to help them realize that each other is all they have left. It has become my personal mission, and I intend to see it through.

The bus slows. Children are ooh-ing and ahh-ing, staring at the bland, yet ominous building we were approaching. Teachers and chaperones were reminding us of all the rules to be followed, such as 'no being rude' and 'stay together'. I wasn't listening.

Ironically enough, as fate would have it, we were on a field trip today to an asylum.

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**A/N: Lolololol what kind of school goes on a field trip to an asylum lololol**

**So, yeah. Prolouge for next chapter, sorry it's so damned short. Next chapter will be at least double the size, I swear!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! I really do appreciate them, and they make chapters come faster :B Here's the next chapter! Hope it's everything you guys hoped it would be! lmao.**_

_**Anyway, just want to let you guys know that there may not be an update on this for a few weeks, because stupid midterms are next week, and I have to study like hell or I'ma fail :P Worked my ass off to get this out before then though, so hopefully it'll tide you over~**_

_**Hey, guess what? Level-5 owns Professor Layton, not me.**_

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Never before had I seen so much white.

The walls, the lights, the chairs, the doors, the floor, the bloody cups and pens and counters and computers...everything was white. Even the people walking around were dressed completely in white. It made one's eyes hurt if you looked at something for too long. Hell, it almost blinded me at first.

Most of my peers inhaled or gasped as we entered. "Agh-my eyes! I've gone blind!" Billy, one of the 'class clowns' shouted upon entry, earning him a stern look from the chaperones and a reprimand from Ms. Lori, our teacher. Some kids giggled.

I wasn't really paying attention. As I looked around, my mind started to wander. How was it possible for people to recover from insanity in this place? Five days in here would have me in a strait-jacket, I tell you. I couldn't live without my blue sweater and hat.

A door to my right opened. I saw a mother and her little boy walking side by side, both sniffling and wiping away tears. I could only guess at what had befallen them; A crazy, sickly old grandmother? A beloved father and husband who can't even remember their names? My heart went out to them.

The women who sat behind the counter didn't look very friendly. They looked mildly irritated, as if they'd rather be anywhere but behind that counter, taking information and lecturing on the rules before admitting people in to see their loved ones. I can only hope that the employees who worked with the 'crazies' had a better disposition.

It was quite hot, too. What a cheap establishment, not even bothering with air conditioning or even a fan. I couldn't fathom how hot it must've been inside, locked in your own little room with no windows. Or maybe they did have windows. But something told me that they didn't. So I just hoped that they did have some kind of A/C back there. I'd go crazy if I had to stay in here with all this stuffiness myself.

"Billy Temple?" Ms. Lori called, pulling my mind back into the mass of children crowded around the entrance.

"Here!" he called back enthusiastically, grinning like a fool.

"Good," she nodded and checked him off. "Alright, let's see...Luke Triton?" she called my name, scanning faces in an attempt to find mine.

"Present." I replied, raising a hand politely to indicate my position in the blob we formed. She glanced at me, smiled, and checked me off, continuing with the next name on the list. After a few more calls and checks, she put her paper away.

"Alright then," she clapped her hands together. "We're going to get to see all there is to see here with a very fun, informative tour! Won't that be nice?" she paused. A few kids nodded and voiced their agreement. Ms. Lori smiled. "Quite. Now let's head over to this counter over here so we can meet our lovely tour guides..." She lead the way as we made our way over to the six ladies waiting expectantly for us. They looked more interested than those sitting behind the counters, at least. A good start.

Ms. Lori then separated us into groups: One guide, one chaperone, and seven students in each of the six groups. Of the six ladies commissioned to lead us around, one of them was old, fat, and seemed very grouchy, frowning at all of us. And as luck would have it, I was part of the group assigned to her. _Wonderful._

She grunted at us in greeting. "So you runts would like a tour of this place, ey?" She asked in a snobbish tone, more rhetorically than anything. No one responded, so she merely gave a disgruntled, "Hmmph." and lead the way waddling through the door the mother and son from earlier had come through.

That could mean only one thing: time to see the 'crazies'.

Once safely inside the room, I decided to slip away from the group. Not that I was normally one to disobey, of course, but I could already tell that bloody woman would drive me mad if I stayed. So off to explore I went.

It was a spacious room, I'll give it that. Some chairs lined the walls of the room, and there were some tables with chairs if their own, along with a couple of couch sets with side tables heavy laden with magazines of all sorts. A few pictures here and there on the walls, and a couple of fans (much to my relief) on the roof. All of it white, of course.

There were a few families visiting at the moment, chatting and hugging, one woman sobbing into her husband's chest. It was easy to tell who the patient was; they were garbed in white as well. In this case it was the woman, the husband rubbing her back and reassuring her softly. My heart fell.

There were a few attendants in the room, only to keep an eye in the patients, making sure they didn't try anything funny. A few of the other groups from our tour were in here too, lucky for me. That way I was much less likely to be suspected of ditching.

Looking around a bit more, I noticed a man sitting on one of the white sofas, sipping his tea quietly, reading some sort of book. No one was with him, so I assumed that he might be an attendant on break. Itching to ask a few questions that had crossed my mind, I decided to try asking him. Surely he wouldn't turn down an inquisitive student?

As I approached him, he looked up, then back at his book, then up at me again, his eyes widening, as if he had been expecting someone else. I just smiled and took a seat on the couch opposite him a few feet away, close enough to shake hands. I held my hand out to the man casually.

"Good day, sir," I greeted warmly and politely, trying to impress the man with manners. "My name's Luke Triton," I offered, hoping that he would return the gesture. His eyes locked with mine for a second, with a sort of blank stare. But he then mirrored my smile and returned my handshake firmly.

"Well, it certainly is nice to meet you, then," He replied, in a very polite, gentlemanly way. His neat brown hair covered the top of his head and trickled down to just past halfway down his forehead, short all around.

I nodded, keeping our eye contact steady. "Quite. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions about this place, seeing as how you work here and all," I ventured, although I was fairly positive the man would say yes. He just seemed like a very reasonable, nice man.

He chuckled deeply, a strong, melodic sound. "Well, my boy, I'm afraid I can't help you there," he said non-chalantly, taking another sip of his tea. It took me a minute to realize what he meant by that. My eyes widened.

If he wasn't an employee...

I took a hard look at his face. He was calmly returning my gaze, a small smile playing on his lips. He had put down his book and was now done with his tea. He didn't seem at all like a crazy person, not to me.

"O-oh, is that so?" I stammered a bit, embarrassed by my own mistake. "My apologies, sir. You must have people waiting to see you, so I'll just take my leave-" I'd started to get up, to make my way back over to the groups of our tour, to put some distance between us because this man wouldn't be here for no reason, he could be very _dangerous_, in fact, when he grabbed my wrist, lightning quick with a firm grip.

I froze. Turning my head, I could see him looking at me forlornly, almost begging me for something. I searched his face for signs of malevolence. I found none.

"It's quite alright, my boy. But that doesn't mean we can't visit for awhile? I confess I haven't had a visitor in ages..." the man said, pleading silently. He let my wrist go, to indicate I was free to go if I so chose.

I didn't move. I could see the sadness in his eyes, though he was trying hard to cover it up. Could it be that this man was all alone? Did he even have anyone willing to come and visit? Anyone that _cared_? I sighed, making up my mind.

"Well, if you don't mind putting up with me, sir, I guess I could chat for awhile," I consented, sitting back down in the spot I'd been sitting before.

His face brightened immediately. "Wonderful! Thank you for letting me take some of your time, my boy, it really means a lot," he said graciously, gesturing to his empty tea cup. "Would you like some?" he asked politely.

I wrinkled my nose. Tea had never been on my list of good things to drink. I preferred coffee. The caffeine helped to keep me awake, and it tasted good without cream and sugar. So I politely declined. "No thank you, sir. I've never liked tea much, to be honest."

The man relaxed into his chair, hands woven together in his lap. "Oh, well that won't do, my boy. You see, tea is a true gentleman's drink," he winked at me playfully. I suppose he had a point; all fancy gentlemen I had ever seen in my life were always drinking tea out of those small, dainty china cups. I guessed that I would never be one of them, and just nodded in agreement. I then noticed the book he had been reading; "Enigmatic Puzzles". My small half-smile turned into a bright grin, turning to the man excitedly. "So you like puzzles, then, sir?" I asked politely.

He smiled brightly. "I've always loved a good riddle. Few things satisfy like a puzzle solved, dear boy," he said, patting the book rather affectionately. I nodded in complete agreement. There was just something about the feeling of searching through a puzzle's words and finding the hidden meaning, and shortly thereafter the answer. It made you feel brilliant. "Although the one I was working on before you came along was quite the challenge," he continued, tapping his fingers lightly over the cover.

I perked up a bit. "Really? I admit that I'm a fan of puzzles myself, sir," I hinted, hoping he might show it to me. He looked a little surprised at that. "Is that so? Well then, I think you'll enjoy this puzzle, then." He picked the book up and handed it to me. "Page 112."

I flipped to the page he'd specified. What I found didn't seem too difficult. Or so I thought.

There was a series of three looped paths, twisting and turning around each other and overlapping in places, like a maze. There were three starting points, one for each path. Two paths had a flower, and one held a pile of stinky garlic. There were three openings at the top of the tangled mass, too. Next to all this was the illustration of an irritated man, his nostrils flaring in spite of the smell.

I turned my attention to the actual riddle then. 'This man has a very stinky problem: his house reeks with the smell of garlic! Below is a representation of the situation. You need to eliminate the smell by corking some holes. Oh, and one more thing: you only have two corks.' Sounded easy enough.

I started by tracing the paths, figuring out which holes led to which beginnings. From the left flower, I traced the path with my index finger. It was useless, ending up back at the flower without connecting to any of the holes. So I looked at the second flower. Traced it's path. Found it to be equally useless.

A bit confused, I traced the garlic's path to it's hole. And was even more baffled when I saw that the garlic connected to all three holes.

I read the puzzle again. Two corks, it said. I looked at the garlic path again, making sure I'd traced it correctly. Yes, I had. It really did connect to all three holes.

But this didn't make any sense. If the puzzle specifically said you only had two corks at your disposal and the smell emanated from all three holes, then the puzzle was unsolvable. I kept tracing the garlic's path over and over, making absolutely sure I was right.

I glanced up. The man was staring at me, an amused little smile on his face. He could easily see my frustrated befuddlement. I felt my cheeks turn slightly red. I'd wanted to impress the man, not make him think I was a complete dunce. Embarrassed, I was determined to puzzle out the answer.

I kept tracing the path, reading the prompt. I went through all of the possibilities in my head, each of them failing miserably. One could almost hear the gears turning in my head at that point.

Then it came to me.

I looked at the picture if the man. His nostrils were flared, almost exaggeratedly so. I read the text again. 'Your job is to eliminate the smell by corking some holes.' Glanced back at the man. Those nostrils were very large indeed.

Large enough for a cork to fit in them.

I lowered the book slowly to my lap, a mixed look of pride and exasperation on my face. I was proud of myself for figuring that one out. But _really_?

The man was looking at me expectantly. I just blinked at him. "That puzzle was just mean, sir," I said in a disapproving tone. Handing the book back to him, I gave him my answer. "You plug his nostrils, don't you?"

He chuckled. "Very good, my boy. I suppose that since you've been so kind as to introduce yourself, I should return the favor." He reached up to his forehead, moved it up and down slightly, and lowered it once more, almost as if he was adjusting a hat that wasn't there. "My name is Hershel Layton, former professor of archaeology at Gressenheller University," he introduced himself with an air of modesty. An image of him in an orange shirt with a smart brown suit and pants and adorned with a snazzy brown top hat suddenly jumped into my mind.

A university professor? Hmm, that's impressive. Archaeology isn't exactly a favorite subject of mine, but it seems interesting enough. But it does raise the question: How in the world did you, a college professor, end up here of all places?

Layton chuckled, snapping my attention back to him. "Well, my boy, that's a long story," he said, as if reading my thoughts. ...Wait a minute. Had I just said that out loud? Oh, great. How rude could I _possibly_ get?

"A-ah, I'm t-terribly sorry, P-professor Layton, sir, I didn't mean to..." I trailed off lamely, looking down, ashamed of my mouth for working when I had clearly told it to stop. The man just laughed and nodded. I looked back up at him, wondering if this was a good sign.

"Former professor. And it's quite alright, my boy," he reassured me, still chuckling a bit. "I would be curious myself if I were you. It is a rather sad story, though," he looked at me a bit somberly, the mirth he'd shown just a few moments ago completely gone. "You're sure you'd like to hear?"

For a moment I became pensive. What should I do? I'm the one who asked (albeit accidentally) in the first place, so it'd be terribly rude to say no. But, admittedly, I did tend to cry at sad scenes in the books I read often, and I didn't want to come across as weak or wimpy. How much longer would that tour last, anyway? Ms. Lori would notice my absence when they grouped back up for sure.

But then it hit me. This would be perfect practice! If I did indeed become a psychiatrist, I'd need to be prepared for sad stories and be strong for the sake of my clients. And this man seemed like such a benevolent, polite, gentlemanly, not crazy fellow that I wanted to make him feel better, or at least know a bit of his back story.

"Of course," I confirmed enthusiastically. "I'd be happy to listen."

Layton nodded. "Very well, then. It goes something like this..."

"I was in my late twenties. I had just landed my teaching job at Gressenheller, and was fitting into it nicely. I had friends, a rewarding employment, a nice house. I was happy. Or so I had thought, back then. The name I would give that feeling now is contentedness. I was content. But all that changed a few weeks after my twenty-eighth birthday.

"I remember the first time I ever saw her eyes. We were both sitting in a small cafe on the edge of town. I was sipping my tea and reading the news paper, and out of the corner of my eye I could see a woman hunched over, softly shaking. My first notion was to leave the poor woman alone, but I reasoned with myself that a true gentleman never leaves a damsel in distress."

_He approached carefully. As soon as he got close, his suspicion proved correct. The woman was crying softly, her elbows on the table and hands over face, trying to avoid detection. Layton gently put hand on her shoulder, causing her to flinch violently and focus her attention on the man._

_Her hair was a soft brown colour, tied in the back but still allowing some stray strands to fall over her fair face. Her eyes were red, yet still she most beautiful I had ever seen, and her cheeks stained by fresh tears. She looked mortified to be seen in such a state, but she was the one who spoke first._

_"C-can I help you?" she said, doing her best to keep the sadness out of her tone. Layton tipped his red hat to her, flashing a small smile. "Yes, ma'am. My name is Hershel Layton, and I must apologize for sneaking up on you like that. But I couldn't help but notice your sadness from across the room, and I was just wondering whether or not I could be of some assistance," he offered politely._

_The woman attempted a smile. "Oh, i-it's nothing, really," she feebly replied, waving a shaky hand dismissively. "I was just thinking, really... I didn't even notice I was starting to cry until I couldn't stop," she giggled a bit, trying to make light of the situation. "I'll be just fine in a minute, thank you."_

_That's what she said, but a few minutes after Layton went to sit back down in his own chair reluctantly after the woman reassured him feverently, she was covering her face with her hands again. Not taking this as a good sign, Layton again made his way over to her. Hearing his footsteps, she knew who it most likely was without even looking at him._

_Layton sighed. "I can see that you aren't feeling quite up to par at the moment, ma'am," he started in a concerned voice, "but I insist I accompany you for a moment." He sat down across from her in the worn, comfortable brown chair. "I know just the thing that will help calm you as well: a nice hot beverage. Tea especially, don't you agree?" he asked, folding his arms together in front of him. The woman uncovered her flushed face and nodded, secretly grateful for this man's persistence._

_Layton smiled. "Alright then, my lady, one cup of extra-relaxing tea coming your way. On me, of course," he winked and flagged down a waiter. A few minutes and quick exchange of a few pounds later, both adults had steaming cups of tea sitting on the table in front of them._

_"Now then," Layton spoke when the woman had adorned the tea with her own amount of cream and sugar and sipped with a smile, "would you mind if I asked your name, ma'am?" he questioned softly. She smiled sweetly, giggling a bit._

_"Of course," she said, sipping a bit more of the tea which was, admittedly, making her feel much better. "My name is Claire."_

"We spent hours sitting there, talking each other's ears off with our life stories. It turned out that her brother had recently passed away. She was very close to him. I managed to convince her to talk about her life to help keep her mind off the tragedy. She told me things about her life and I told her things about mine.

"She told me about her dog, Shelby, and how she liked to sit with her while she was doing research or reading. She told me of her career as a scientist, and her ambitions to work with her co-workers to produce the world's working first time machine. She shared with me some of her best memories, such as her building a snowman with her family when she was six, or her visit to Egypt as a teen.

"I found her a great many things. Amazing, intelligent, funny, charming. She would tuck a strand of her chocolatey brown hair behind her ear constantly, where it would never stay. Her laugh was the most beautiful sound; soft and light, almost like a song. She was beautiful, and I was instantly infatuated.

"Our relationship had quickly bloomed. When we left the cafe that night, after a whopping 6 hours of discussion, we'd agreed to keep in touch. After a few calls, I'd gotten up the courage to ask her to accompany me to the annual fair held that weekend. She accepted happily.

"At first, it was just a light relationship. We would go out to the park on afternoon picnics, take a boat down the river Thames, or just go for a stroll through the town. Sometimes we'd even just sit at home, sharing our latest accomplishments in each of our jobs, visiting with each other, maybe even tackling a few puzzles together. We made a great team, her and I.

"After a while, though, it began to become serious. We'd toned down the quantity of our outings together, but the quality had improved quite a bit. I began taking her to theatres and fancy restaurants, and although she protested against my spending so much on her, I couldn't help it. I was in love with her.

"Coincidentally, our birthdays were close to one another, hers being the twenty-first and mine being the thirtieth of September. It had been almost a year since we'd begun courting, and I was very serious about her. I asked her questions non-chalantly, about things she liked when we went out for walks around town, what she didn't, and what she wanted for her birthday. She would tell me this or that, maybe a nice dress or a pair of shoes. But then we passed a clock shop, and I noticed her eye one of the pocket watches with awe and want, and it was then I knew what to get her. I stopped by the shop and purchased it the very next day.

"When I presented her with it, she was very happy with it, telling me that I had great taste and that it was perfect. It was a fairly big watch, it's cover adorned with intricate swirls and an occasional colored jewel. It made her happy, which made me happy as well. Nine days later, on my birthday, she presented me with my gift."

_Claire set the box on the table with great care. It was a large, plain-looking box, and Layton couldn't begin to harbor a guess as to what was inside of it. She giggled._

_"Well, don't just sit there! Open it," she playfully commanded, guiding his hands to it's opening with her own. Layton's curiosity piqued, he began to fiddle with the tab keeping the box's lid in place. Managing to get that over with, he did not hesitate when opening it. But before he could reach inside the now ajar container, Claire reached her own slim hands in._

_"Allow me," she said excitedly, obviously looking forward to what was about to happen. She slowly lifted the contents of the box out into Layton's view, showing it off by rotating it a bit both ways for him. Layton stared at it blankly for a moment. In Claire's pale, smooth hands lay a tall brown top hat, complete with a nice wide red ribbon around it's base._

_"Well, Hershel? What do you think?" she asked expectantly, with a slightly amused expression painting her face. She started making her way towards him, inspecting it herself. "I know it isn't really your usual style, but," she started, pausing to place the hat on top of her love's head, "but I just know it'll work!" She adjusted the hat, making sure it was just right on his head. She clapped her hands together happily, satisfied. "Oh, it looks wonderful on you, Hershel!" she sang jubilantly._

_Layton didn't know what to think at first. Claire was right about one thing; top hats weren't exactly his style. He pushed his chair back and walked over to he adjacent wall, which housed a mirror. Examining himself in the mirror, he guessed that he didn't look terrible. He had been wearing his casual red vest and hat, the latter of which he'd taken off at Claire's request when he entered the room. That being said, the hat didn't quite match his outfit, save for the red ribbon (it was awfully fancy-looking for his at-the-moment casual attire)._

_Claire came up behind him and hugged him around the waist. "See? You look like quite the gentleman now, wouldn't you say?" she giggled softly when he blushed slightly. He chuckled too; if Claire liked it, if it made her happy, then he liked it as well. He smiled, rotated in her hold of him, and gave her a soft, loving kiss. "I love it, Claire."_

"It was then that I had decided to marry her."

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_**A/N: Ooh, cliffy? …not really hurr hurr. And I'm pretty spazzy when it comes to POV this chapter, lolol**_

_**Uh yeah if I didn't mention it before this is a Layton/Claire-centric angst fic. It kinda surprised me when I started to write it, because even though it's canon, I don't really support it (Layton/Luke or Layton/Clive ftw baby) very much. But it's not terribly angsty yet. It gets there though, trust me ;D**_

_**Yeah, so, this chapter and the next were originally intended to be together and make a two-shot story. Well, the size of them both put together would absolutely dwarf the previous chapter and look stupid, so I just went with this idea.**_

**_EDIT: LOL I CAN'T DO MATH. Layton's birthday is NINE days after Claire's, not eight. Silly me. Also, even though I included the hat scene because I think it's cute and well done, the backstory is AU because I'm too lazy to actually look up the canon stuff anyway ¬w¬'_**

_**Reviews are welcome and appreciated! Until next time~**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and alerts and all that! Really motivates me to write :B**_

_**Mhmm, so now that exams are over I finally had some time to finish this up! Enjoy the chaptah.**_

_**I'm not cool enough to own Professor Layton.**_

-s-t-a-r-t-c-h-a-p-t-e-r-

"I scoured every inch of the city, searching for the perfect ring. I went to a plethora of shops, trying to find all he things Claire liked in one ring. It was a difficult puzzle, to be sure. All of the rings I came across were very fancy, studded with pearls and rubies and emeralds and topaz, cluttering the ring with all the gems. But I knew Claire; she didn't fancy things like that.

"It took a good week of searching until I found it. The ring I would propose with. It was very plain, very simple, with just a single small diamond nestled into the top, with minute swirls swirling from this all the way around the ring's slim base. Modest yet elegant, which was exactly what Claire was. I did not hesitate in purchasing it, and shortly thereafter began planning when and how exactly to propose.

"I'd finally decided on a surprise visit on a Saturday evening, when Claire would be at her home, working on some of her research. The whole week passed in a giddy, anxious manner. I could barely concentrate in my classes, much to my students' amusement. I was more excited and nervous than ever when Saturday finally did come around.

"Even though Claire had given me a key to her apartment, I knocked on the wooden white door, because that was the most gentlemanly thing to do. I waited a few minutes, but she never answered the door. This cycle went on for a good five minutes, me knocking and her not answering. Finally I just decided to unlock and open the door myself, because perhaps she had fallen asleep or was in the restroom. Running my hand through my new snazzy brown suit's pocket, I pulled out the required key and stuck in the lock. And promptly discovered that her door was unlocked.

"Claire never left her door unlocked."

_"Claire?" he called aloud as he stepped cautiously into the flat. He passed the living room to make his way to her bedroom, which also served as her research workstation. Seeing no one, he turned around and walked back into the living room, glancing around it. Which also resulted in nothing. Growing a bit frustrated, he glanced at the kitchen._

What he saw there would haunt him forever after.

Lying there on the white tile, with a deep gash on the side of her head and an impressive pool of blood surrounding her noggin*, was Claire. Layton's eyes widened even more than he had ever thought possible, and he bolted towards her and knelt beside her, tears already starting to trickle down his face. Her eyes were already dull and lifeless, and her skin was already cool. Layton tried to find a pulse anyway. He tried on her chest, on her wrist, even her neck, and he still could feel nothing. He was downright sobbing by now, feeling several things at once: pain, guilt, sorrow, pure anger.

"C-Claire..." he choked out, hunching over her corpse wretchedly. He couldn't do it. Couldn't believe it. His mind refused to wrap itself around the reality that she was gone. And just as he was about to propose_ to her, Goddammit! He wondered pathetically what he had done to deserve such a thing to happen. Her laugh, her smile, her lips, her voice, her embrace... He would never be able to see or feel or hear these things ever again._

He noticed something next to her, a few feet away. Upon closer inspection it was a medium-sized stone, with a blunt end like any other stone, and a sharper end on the other. The sharp end had dried blood on it as well. That was the murder weapon then. All Layton could bring himself to do was glare at it with such intensity that it could have burst into flames.

He sat there, cradling her in his arms, weeping with such intensity that he was sure his lungs would stop working at one point. It was only hours later, almost midnight, when he stopped. Not because he wanted to, mind you; he had no more tears to cry.

The time he had spent crying he had also spent thinking. At first it was just a mindless whirl of memories of him and Claire, and how he would never be able to do any of those things with her again. But after awhile, his mind started forming ideas seemingly on it's own. Claire had loved the Thames. Every time he would ask her where she'd like to go, she would tell him the Thames with a big child-like grin. So, Layton's subconscious thought, he would give her a proper burial there. She would have liked that.

He found a bag in her pantry. Put her in it. Dragged her out to the Laytonmobile. Drove away in the general direction of the Thames.

He wasn't thinking straight, he knew. He also understood that he should have called the police immediately, so they could perform an autopsy, narrow down suspects, try and find the killer. Because of his actions, the police might suspect him now. Yes, Layton knew all this. But making sure Claire was happy had been his top priority ever since he had met her, and that wasn't going to stop now.

He was in shock, and his mind was warping the reality he was interacting in. Some moments he really believed that it was all just a bad dream, and that he would wake up momentarily and be able to see Claire alive and smiling once again. Irrational grief fueled his decisions and actions, but the man couldn't bring himself to care.

Upon arrival to his destination, he immediately hopped out of the automobile and scouted out the perfect spot for his love's eternal rest. With shovel in hand, he dug. And dug. And dug. With night's darkness as his cover, he kept digging until his hole was about five-and-a-half feet wide and six feet deep. By this time, it was well into the morning, about four thirty. He was exhausted, but this was something he had to do. If not for Claire, then for himself.

He made his way back to the Laytonmobile. Lifting the bag containing his love's corpse took an insane amount of effort, but he did it, and carried her out to the hole he'd dug, which if stood near, gave you a brilliant view of the river below. His knees gave out when he got to it's edge, and he just knelt there, slowly removing Claire's body from the bag. Her skin was very pale and icy cold as he touched her face, stroking it tenderly.

"Claire..." his voice cracked, and his body shamelessly started to tremble again. Why would anyone do such a thing so such a nice, sweet girl? Layton reached a shaky hand into his pocket and pulled out the jet black container holding the ring he had been on a mission to propose with. With some difficulty, he took the ring out of it's case and slid it gently onto Claire's left ring finger. He smiled a smile devoid of any happiness; he noted how good the ring would have looked on Claire, had she been living and breathing and able to appreciate it.

He suddenly started to feel vaguely nauseous; he couldn't take staring at her lifeless body for much longer. He took her cold hand into his own warm one, and squeezed lovingly. "I know you would have liked this," he managed to choke out, tears once again trickling down his face. With one last look at his lifeless beloved, he lowered her into the hole and proceeded to shovel the dirt back in. Finished with all that, he looked around the area and found a large, flattish stone, and placed it there, as a sort of makeshift headstone.

When he returned to his automobile, slumping in the driver's seat with an exhausted sigh, he sat there for a good hour, just staring at the stone he had placed melancholy shock. It was only when the sun started to peek out from over the east horizon that Layton finally summoned up the energy to drive away.

"I spent the next day in it's entirety sitting in my study, staring at the wall blankly. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't even think. I just sat there, in a grief-induced stupor, all day. It wasn't until the- my boy, are you crying?"

I was pulled back into reality by Layton's gentle touch on my shoulder. I jumped a mile from the unexpected contact, and analyzed the last thing he'd said, which accused me of crying. So I checked my cheeks.

Yup, definitely tears.

I started wiping my eyes furiously, extremely embarrassed by my girliness. "O-oh, I-I, uhm, I w-was just...T-the story, it just r-really got to m-me, and I..." I trailed off, unsuccessful in stopping my tear duct's functioning. "H-having someone you l-love so much just d-die so suddenly...I-it's so h-horrible..." I sobbed, hoping that Layton, or anyone else in the room, for that matter, didn't notice my voice continually cracking. I felt a strange kinship to him. I could sort of understand this man's pain; I had loved my mother very much. True, it's not exactly the same kind of love, but...

I looked at him now, a sheepish look on my face. I was a little surprised to see him wiping a few tears away as well. Although why I was surprised, I didn't know. He's the one who actually went through it. That makes his pain a thousand times worse.

I managed to reduce my crying to sniffles, wiping away what was left of my tears. "Y-you can continue now, Professor," I said, and after realizing how much it must have pained him to recall all this, hastily added, "U-uh, that is, only if you'd like to, s-sir." He smiled sadly. "Of course. A true gentleman leaves no story unfinished, after all."

"It wasn't until the next day, Monday, that the weight of what I'd done fully hit me. I wasn't in any better condition than the day before, but I had a commitment to my students, so I forced myself to the university. It wasn't terrible, really; teaching helped keep my mind off recent events. After I'd finished and everything was taken care of, I would return home and busy myself with something, anything, to keep my mind off of Claire's murder.

"My approach to dealing with it worked well enough for a few days, but on Thursday while I was teaching my afternoon class, something we were going over reminded me of her, and my façade slipped. Needless to say, I went home early that day and took Friday off.

"On Saturday, nearly a week after my beloved's death, I heard a knock on my door. I hadn't been expecting anyone, so I was a bit hesitant to answer, but a true gentleman never ignores his guests. When I opened the door, I found Inspector Chelmey of the Scotland Yard waiting for me."

_The man had wispy brown hair, complete with a smart brown mustache. He flashed his badge at Layton professionally. "Inspector Chelmey of the Scotland Yard. You are Mr. Hershel Layton?" he inquired, stroking his chin and sizing him up menacingly._

Layton tipped his hat to the man. "At your service, sir. Please, Inspector, come in," he greeted, moving aside to let Chelmey inside. He merely grunted his thanks as he crossed the threshold. Layton escorted him into the kitchen, where he motioned for the Inspector so sit, but Chelmey politely declined, stating that his business would only take a few minutes.

He cleared his throat. "Mr. Layton, you are acquaintances with Ms. Claire Folly, correct?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Layton's stomach dropped. This was about Claire? He should have suspected as much; she worked with her colleagues every week on her research, and they would have noticed her absence. He became visibly nervous, which Chelmey did not miss.

"Yes, Inspector." Layton confirmed, careful to keep his tone level.

Chelmey nodded. "I thought as much. I've heard that you two have been courting for awhile, too. Is this correct?" he fired, again completely aware that this was the truth. Layton swallowed audibly.

"Yes, Inspector," he repeated, his voice a little shakier than before. Chelmey slightly raised a suspicious eyebrow, but nodded and said nothing.

"I see. Well, are you aware of the fact that Miss Folly has been missing for almost a week now?" he questioned, staring at Layton intensely. The man lowered his gaze.

"Yes, Inspector."

"Is that so? Well, in that case, did you know that her body was found near the Thames, six feet underground?" Layton hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure what to do. Should he lie, and possibly get out of this mess? Or should he tell the truth and aid the police in finding the assailant? Although Layton had a horrible feeling it was just going to land him in deeper trouble than he'd ever imagined himself to be in, he chose the latter option.

"...Yes, Inspector." He sounded like a broken record and he knew it, but he had to answer the questions. Chelmey didn't look terribly surprised.

"Oh really, now?" he said in a faux-shocked tone. "Tell me then, Mr. Layton, how do you know that?" he asked. Layton responded to the inquiry with no hesitation this time.

"Because I was the one who buried her there, Inspector."

"Needless to say, he arrested me on the spot. I spent a week in jail before my trial. It was a very miserable experience for me, to say the least. There are no fellow gentlemen in jail. No matter how hard I tried to keep my distance, they would come up to me and push me around and beat me up, like a living, breathing punching bag. I tried being as optimistic as I could, but I highly doubted that even Phoenix Wright** himself could get me out of this one.

"The trial went as well as I'd expected. My government-provided lawyer had absolutely nothing to defend me with. I tried desperately to convince them that all I had done was find her dead in her apartment and decide to bury her because she loved the Thames very much, and I wanted her to be happy. I only ended up making the jury and judge question my sanity to the point that they sentenced me to 10 years in an asylum. I thought that was a step up from prison. I was wrong.

"The first thing they do when you're put into an asylum's custody is assign you to a room depending on your level of 'insanity'. They range from one to six; I was considered a four. My room consisted of a small bed and nightstand set, a small table and chair, and a fan up much higher than I could reach on the ceiling. Everything white, of course.

"The first encounter with my personal psychiatrist wasn't very productive. She asked me to tell her why I had killed Claire. I told her the truth, that I had merely buried her out of grief, nothing more. The rest of the time there was a battle of who could repeat themselves more; her with her ever-present question, or me and my truthful-yet-completely-invalid answer. I eventually won, and she sent me out, but I could tell she just thought me crazy like everyone else did.

"The first few weeks were complete hell. Apparently most of the shock of Claire's death had decided to make a late appearance, and that coupled with my animosity towards the whole madhouse situation in general tore me apart. I wouldn't eat, sleep, talk to my psychiatrist, nothing. I was prone to outbursts that consisted of mostly yelling and slamming my fists on anything within reach (as long as it wasn't a person. I was never one to condone violence towards others unless it was a dire circumstance.). I also would spent the nighttime hours sobbing uselessly in my room. Those times are hazy; I only remember what my various caretakers told me about it.

"However, I eventually came back to my senses. I was eager to show them that I could make progress on my so-called battiness. From that point on, I became the model patient, doing everything that was asked of me and more, whether it was helping and talking to fellow loons or my turn to help serve meals, et cetera. I never once admitted to doing something I hadn't, however, as with the psychiatrist woman's constant inquiries.

"My sudden turn for the better was well received by everyone. I've steadily been sliding down the crazy-meter, from four to three, three to two, and finally from two to one. I get special privileges now, such as sitting in this room, reading with the wonderful natural light instead of the old lamp in my quarters. But I admit this is the first time I've ever had a visitor in my six years of residence."

For the first time in awhile, Layton looked away from the window and at me, a genuine smile forming on his lips. Unfortunately, I was unable to return the gesture, as I was too close to starting up the waterworks again.

"...Six years?" I repeated, shocked. Did no one really care about him anymore? Didn't anyone believe him? I shook my head vehemently, trying to keep tears of anger and empathy off my face. "That's absolutely ridiculous," my voice cracked on the last word, effectively stopping my train of thought.

Layton just chuckled sadly. "It's quite understandable once you think about it a bit, my boy. You see, no one wants to be involved with an insane killer," he observed quietly, a melancholy tone staining his once-jolly voice. It was clear that he had had faith in them once, in his friends, a long time ago, before they decided to just cut ties without even saying goodbye.

I'm not exactly sure how or why it happened. I suppose it was just my way of trying to comfort him, although it was him who did the majority of the comforting. Then again, it was probably just my inability to control my emotions around people I thought I could trust, and even though I'd only known him for about an hour or so, I trusted him more than anyone else in the world. Regardless of how it happened, one moment I was sitting on the opposite side of the couch and the next I was hugging Layton's chest, hiccupping and sobbing into his white shirt.

He went stiff for a moment, no doubt a wee bit shocked at my sudden embrace. But a few moments later he was trembling too, tears running down his face, and he hugged me closer. I was so embarrassed by my childish crying, but it didn't seem to bother Layton any, so I just kept at it, knowing that I couldn't stop even if I'd wanted to. People were probably staring at us, but I couldn't have cared less.

We sat like that for a long time, just letting it all out. It had been awhile since I'd last cried (aside from that little incident a short while before, of course), and I could tell it'd been some time since he had as well. We finally managed to calm ourselves down and disentangle our bodies. I wiped at my eyes a bit, afraid of meeting the man's gaze.

"It's been years since I last cried, my boy," Layton started, having regained his composure, "and I feel much better now." He looked at me, and I returned that look. For a moment, time stood still as we interpreted each others' stares. I couldn't make out the emotion I saw in his eyes. Then he smiled at me fondly and reached out to lightly ruffle my hair.

"Thank you."

I could feel my face turn slightly red. He was thanking me for making him cry? No, no. He was thanking me for _caring_. And although I had no idea of how to respond to that, I decided to give him a small smile in return. "Anytime, Professor."

He shook his head a bit and opened his mouth to say something, probably correct me by saying 'former professor' (well, shoot me. I rather liked the term Professor for the man.), but I never got to hear what he said because at that moment, a man walked into the room loudly calling my name.

"Luke Triton, there a Luke Triton in here?" he asked around, doing a 360 spin for a full view of the room. I'm not exactly sure how, but he recognized me as this Luke Triton upon sight from afar, and when he saw who I was sitting with, he did a double take. A firm frown set on his middle-aged face, he made his way over to us, whipping up a fake smile just before he closed in.

"Well there you are," he smiled sweetly, as if trying to coax a five-year old away from his favorite toy. "Your teacher about had a heart attack when she noticed you were missing, y'know," he continued, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the sofa abruptly. I made a sound of protest, but the man ignored me, giving Layton, who looked unsurprised, a curt nod. "I'll just be taking him back now, Layton." he said the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, and proceeded to lead me away. I glanced back at him; he gave me a small sad smile and a wave.

We were near the door when I finally managed to break free of his grip. I adjusted my hat a bit, giving the man a bit of a scowl. "That was a bit rude, sir," I said, and he just shook his head.

"In case you haven't noticed, sonny, you're in an asylum," he informed matter-of-factly. I snorted. No shit. "And people are in this asylum to get help, y'see, so most of 'em aren't right in the head, if you get my meaning. They're dangerous," he crossed his arms, as if daring me to contradict his words. I obliged happily.

"Sir, that man doesn't belong here. He's perfectly sane!" I defended him, crossing my own arms. "He just made a mistake, that's all."

The man chuckled grimly. "Ah, but you see, that's what he wants you to think," he shook a finger at me with a smug little smile on his face, which made me even more angry. "They act all nice and sane and sorry for what they've done, but it's all just a façade. They just want to get out so they can do it again," he looked over at Layton, who had gone back to reading his puzzle book. "Didja know that he even had a mental breakdown in one of his classes a few days before he was taken into custody? He may say he didn't do anything, but we cannot be so trusting. It's for everyone's best interests."

I stole a glance of my own at the (former) professor. He was looking at me sadly—longingly, almost?—but when he noticed I was looking at him as well he quickly averted his gaze, busying himself with his book once more. I felt my cheeks color slightly for some reason. I just shook my head and grumbled a small "whatever" in response to the man's reasoning. No matter what anyone said, Layton wasn't crazy. I had faith in his sanity, because if no one else did, then he really would go batty.

The man led me back out into the crazyhouse's lobby, where a fervently pacing Ms. Lori met us gladly. She pulled me into one of those teacher-bear-hugs, and told me off sharply.

"What in the world were you thinking, Luke, wandering off like that in the middle of an asylum, for God's sake," she rubbed her temples tiredly. "Do you know how dangerous people can be in here? What if someone had decided to use a chair to bludgeon you? Or maybe just suffocate you? You'd be an easy target, you know..." she went on, trying to set an example for (and more importantly, scare) the other students.

I inwardly rolled my eyes. Ms. Lori had a way of exaggerating to the extreme. But I put on what I hoped was a pitiful, innocent expression. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I just thought that this would be a good learning experience for me if I do become a psychiatrist..." I trailed off, knowing full well that I'd just won. Using the 'well I was just trying to learn' line was the universal ticket out of most school-related dilemmas. She just sighed and ushered everyone out of the building.

Someone gave me a hard shove from behind, nearly knocking me over. Once I'd recovered my balance, I whirled around to face the perpetrator. Evan Canterbury, the biggest and most aggressive kid in our year. The one kid I couldn't stand up to and expect to walk away without medical attention. Awesome.

"Way to go, Tri-turd," he sneered, obviously proud of his crude little nickname for me. "Because of you, we had to be there like ten minutes longer than needed. Seriously, that shit was soo fuckin' boring," he whined to his fellow delinquents, who snickered along with him. "Thought asylums were awesome with all those fucked up people clustered up together, but that place was lame."

Seeing as how he'd momentarily forgotten me, I decided to hustle my way to the front of our blob of boys and girls. Much safer there.

The ride home was just as monotonous as it's predecessor. Billy Temple asked me about where I'd been all that time, but I merely shrugged and told him I was just wandering around. Satisfied, he turned away to talk with Shelly Sanders, and I turned toward the window.

My mind kept going back to that man; Hershel Layton. His tragedy. His loneliness, which was so severe that he'd practically begged a adolescent stranger for a few minutes company. His future. What would he do when he finally got out? Would he even have anywhere to go? All these unanswered questions and more swirled around in my head, refusing to dissipate. I sighed.

I'd have to go and visit that man again someday.

-e-n-d-c-h-a-p-t-e-r-

_**A/N: lolwhatstoryendingsocliche**_

_***Yeah, sorry. I think 'noggin' totally kills the mood of that part. It was the only synonym of head I could think of D:**_

_****couldn't resist a hint at the upcoming epic crossover. I love Phoenix Wright.**_

_**So, yep. I didn't plan on this fic being very long anyway. Hope you guys enjoyed it, I know it was a pretty weird plot. And yes, I do fail at writing angst. This was my first try :| **_

_Might__** be an epilogue, but I'm warning you right now, if there is one it will most definitely contain some Layton/Luke. Just saying.**_

_**Thanks for reading!~**_


	4. Epilogue Pt 1

_**A/N: Part one of two.**_

_**In Soviet Russia, Professor Layton doesn't own YOU! …I don't own anything.**_

—**s—t—a—r—t—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**

It was a beautiful day. Birds were chirping happily, people were bustling around getting errands done, couples were taking strolls holding hands. The streets were fairly empty, but that was to be expected; it was early.

I sat in the bus' third seat on the left, the seat I always sat in. Looking up at the street every so often to check our progress, I traced the indentions on the back of the seat ahead of me with my index finger, like I'd done so many times before. But today, it was different. My fingers danced and twirled, mirroring my excitement for the day ahead. I smiled to myself and relaxed back into my seat, content to just sit back and enjoy the rest of the ride.

The bus arrived a short while later, taking the same amount of time it always did: 19 minutes. I was off the bus before anyone else had even gotten up; I would not be late. Or even on time. This was something you had to be early for.

My destination was still a few blocks away from the stop, and I would have counted the steps it took to get from A to B had I not done it dozens of other times before. Not like it was going to spontaneously change on me. Turning the first of three corners I would have to pass, I checked my wristwatch. Seven thirteen.

I smiled to myself, listening to the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground every half-second or so. The watch always brought up a fond memory every time I checked the time, the memory of the day I'd gotten it.

_"Professor...!" I breathed, totally shocked and pleased at the same time. He responded with that familiar light chuckle that always sent my heart racing just a bit faster than it already was._

"Yes, well, I do apologize it can't be a bit more...personal, but when you can't go anywhere, it turns into quite the difficult task, you see," he justified regretfully, though the smile never quite left his face. But that wasn't the problem here.

You see, today was my sixteenth birthday. I had, like a child, been secretly hoping for a small gift of some kind, but would have been completely understanding if there had been none. I mean, he's in an asylum, for God's sake. But this was just going too far.

In his outstretched hand was a pile of pounds totaling five hundred. Five. Hundred. Pounds.__

"Professor, I will not_ take five hundred pounds from you! Even if it is a gift!" I said angrily, though I was actually deeply touched by the thought. As much as it makes me sound like a lovesick girl, it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, and I wanted to hug him fiercely. "How did you even get that much anyway?"_

Layton just chuckled again. "If you know how to butter your superiors up, it is surprising what you can accomplish," he stated simply, hand unmoving. "I was able to convince an employee to accompany me to the nearest bank so I could withdraw it." He grabbed my hand and placed the pile in my palm, grasping my hand with both of his in doing so. "This is a gift that I want you to have, my boy," he said, eyes twinkling with an emotion I couldn't recognize. "I won't take no for an answer on this matter."

I felt my face heat up instantly, but still I tried. "...I'm touched, professor, I really am," I started truthfully, "but don't you think five hundred is a bit much? How about two hundred instead?" I attempted to make a bargain, but he would have none of it.

"Absolutely not. It's already withdrawn, so what's done is done," he declined, crossing his arms with an air of finality. I sighed, knowing that he always won when he wanted something. I pocketed the money carefully, half in one pocket, half in the other.

"I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight," I said, already feeling guilty. He shook his head, smiling.

"I'm sure you'll have minimal trouble, my boy," he said amiably. "Now, I'd like you to take that money and buy the first thing on your mind. Something that you'd like."

I looked at him. "Right now?"

"Yes, right now."

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "But I don't even know what to get," I said, kind of lamely. I had a pretty good idea of what I'd get, but I didn't want to leave just yet.

He leaned back in his own chair. "Get the first thing that tickles your fancy. And not something cheap, like a pack of pens or a coffee," he smiled as he said that last part. I fumed.

"I wouldn't waste your money on something like that!" I countered vehemently, crossing my own arms to mirror his. He chuckled.

"Well then, hop to it. There's precious little daylight left anyway; I'd like you to get it today."

I sighed and stood up. "Alright, if you insist," I put a smile of my own on now, and took a glance at the nearest window. He was right, it was getting dark. "I promise to come by early next time to show it to you!" I called over my shoulder as I walked out, and he laughed and responded with a goodbye.

Once out of the madhouse's proximity, I broke into a run for the jeweler's place I passed on every bus trip out here. I'd lied back there; I knew exactly what I wanted. After a few blocks I was positively panting for breath, but I had arrived: Natalie's Jeweler. I stood outside long enough to regain my composure and hurried in.

"Welcome!" a young woman greeted me in a sing-song voice heartily. She didn't look any older than I was. "How do you do? I'm Becky, daughter of the owner with a fantastic taste in jewelry! Tell me, sir, how can I help you?" she asked with impeccable mannerisms.

I was momentarily taken aback by it. "Oh, erm, hello," I replied. She giggled. Slightly embarrassed, I cleared my throat. "I'm actually looking for a watch," I said.

She clapped her hands together. "Great! We have quite a few of those; I'm sure we'll find one that you fancy," she smiled pleasantly. She was certainly very good at this 'kind hostess' thing.

"Well, I'm actually looking for one in particular, you see," I continued, glancing at the shop's front window. "It was medium-ish sized, sleek-looking silver face and links... It was also on display up there," I gestured to the window, which now housed no watch fitting my description. She nodded understandingly though.

"I know it. Give me a second and I'll retrieve one from the back for you!" she barely had the words out before she was skipping away. I sighed, relieved that she seemed to know what I was talking about. But one thing still bugged me a bit: the cost. I had no idea how much it'd cost. What if it was even more than what the Professor had gifted me?

Before I could dwell on the subject much more, Becky was back with a small black box emblazoned with the jeweler's logo on its cover. "Is this what you're looking for?" she asked, handing me the box to inspect it. I took a slightly hesitant peek inside.

Nestled into the white cottony cushion inside was a beautiful silver watch, complete with a shiny gold-tinted latch. The face was encircled by fancily crafted numbers and three black hands, one for hour, minute, and second each. The hands were unmoving, the delicate little knob on the right side protruding for time input. My face broke into a smile. "This is exactly what I was looking for," I mumbled gratefully. She nodded knowingly.

"It's one of our finest, in my opinion. It is for you, isn't it? Why don't you try it on?" she suggested, taking the box from me and sliding the watch onto my right wrist. She closed the clasp, making a little sound of approval. "It looks wonderful on you," she winked.

I smiled. "Thank you."

She nodded. "Mhmm. Well, I suppose you're wondering about the cost, eh?" she said, a slightly mischievous smirk playing on her lips. My smile disappeared instantly. She laughed in that singsong tone again. "Oh, don't worry, it's not as much as you might think," she reassured.

I wasn't so sure; the watch could easily be worth 600 pounds or more, and I only had 520 or so on me. I sighed, preparing for the worst. "How much?"

"Four fifty."

My eyes widened in relief. Becky must have noticed, because she giggled. "Like I said, respectable price. But not overly greedy about it," she tapped her head smartly. "So you don't need a bag?"

After I'd paid and thanked her twice more, I walked out of the shop happier than I'd been in years. According to my spiffy new watch, it was half past eight now, so I headed home. Father wasn't there—surprise, surprise—but I made myself a couple of sandwiches and finished up the rest of my school work, and by eleven, I was sleeping contentedly, dreaming of silver, Ferris wheels, and top hats.

When I had shown up the very next day to show Layton the new watch, he gave me that trademark chuckle again.

"Modest yet elegant, my boy. It suits you perfectly."  
  
I was nearly there now. Just around this last block, and I'd be able to see it...there! The foreboding white building that I'd come to visit every week for almost four years now was now in plain sight. It looked almost deserted, but again, that's time's fault.

I sped up my pace, eager to get inside and see Layton. He'd seem pretty non-chalant about this whole ordeal last Sunday, but I knew him. He probably hasn't been able to sleep in anticipation. Today would be the last day I would ever come and visit.

I burst through the doors, a little louder than I had expected. The attendants didn't even bother to look up and see who it was; they all knew me on a first name basis by now, and they were well aware of what today was.

"Early today, aren't we, Luke?" one of the younger secretaries teased. I chuckled.

"Well, Sharon, one should always be fashionably early for an event such as this," I responded playfully. She shook her head, smiling.

"If you say so. Hershel's in his quarters right now, I'm afraid, so you can't—" Sharon started, then stopped as she heard the inner door open. We both adopted wide grins as who else but the professor stepped out, wearing no doubt borrowed clothes. (He looked very dashing when he wasn't wearing all white...well, more attractive than normal, anyway.) He looked at me, mildly surprised and pleased with a smile of his own.

"Well, speak of the devil," Sharon amended, shuffling some papers on her desk. "Alright then, Mr. Layton, you'll need to fill out these papers to start with," she handed a small stack of paperwork and a pen to him and resumed her work. Layton thanked her kindly and beckoned me with him to a set of chairs in the waiting area.

"You're quite early, my boy," he greeted as we sat in our respective chairs. He was wearing a slim brown button-up shirt that was tucked into a wrinkle-free pair of khaki pants, complete with the standard brown belt holding it all in place. Like I said before, extremely attractive.

Much to my surprise, though, I was able to keep my voice level. "I wanted to show my support as much as possible, I guess," I couldn't keep the seemingly perpetual grin off my face. He chuckled at that.

"Luke, you've been showing your support for almost four years," he reminded me, as if he thought I'd forgotten. "I just have no idea how I'll go about thanking you for it." He looked down now, to get started on the required paperwork.

I leaned back in my seat. "You know full well my opinion on that subject," I responded simply. Layton gave a small 'hmm' but said nothing else.

We sat there for a good fifteen minutes, him scrawling yeses and noes and checks and whatnot on his papers, and I observing quietly, checking my watch every few minutes. Soon after Layton turned his work back in to Sharon, a slightly gruff-looking man took him back into the building's inner rooms.

"Would you like something to drink, Mr. Triton?" one of the other secretaries called to me from across the room. I declined politely. I just wasn't in the mood for water at that moment.

A few minutes later, Layton returned, carrying a small suitcase and a piece of paper. He showed this piece of paper to Sharon, who after a few studious moments nodded with approval. He then put the paper in his back pocket and motioned for me to come over, so I obliged immediately.

"I'm cleared," he said simply, voice quivering with controlled excitement.

I mirrored his elated smile. "Let's be off, then," I replied, moving forward and opening the front door wide.

The breeze buffeted our faces as we walked out into the fresh air that Layton had been deprived of for a solid ten years now. The sun was shining brightly, causing him to squint for a few moments before his eyes widened in ecstasy. I chuckled; he looked like a child walking into his first amusement park. He took a few deep inhales, closing his eyes and savoring it. We stopped at the asylum's front gate for a moment, enjoying the positive weather.

"Is it different at all?" I asked softly, keen on some kind of conversation.

He shook his head, smiling. "My boy, don't ever take fresh air or freedom for granted," he replied with a laugh. "It truly is wonderful to be out and about again. Though not too much has changed, at least not that I can see as of yet."

I laughed. "I'm sure there'll be plenty of things you'll spot, Professor," I reassured, placing my hands in my pockets. "So, what would you like to do first?"

He thought for a moment. "Let's go for a stroll along the Thames," he suggested.

I took a quick glance at his expression. It didn't seem the least bit troubled, but I knew him. His ever-present gentlemanly facade never let on any unsavory feelings, especially about the whole Claire incident. But how was I supposed to decline a man who'd been locked away for a decade his first request? I mentally sighed and put on a cheery grin.

"Let's do it, then!"

_-asdfjkl-_

I was a bit taken aback; the man didn't seem at all wistful.

We were walking along the great river, chatting a bit here and there. He would occasionally point out new things, like the new lighthouse or a few new riverside restaurants, and I would explain as best I could when and why they were built, but for the most part we just enjoyed the beauty of natural silence. And not once did the serene smile leave his lips.

"Well, the Thames is as majestic as ever," he said casually, almost as if he had forgotten all about Claire. But I knew better than that.

"It certainly is relaxing," I concurred, leaning my head back so as to look at the sky. There were scarcely any clouds, and I could've sworn I saw a green parrot or some such flying around. I don't know why, but I desperately wanted to ask him if we were anywhere near the spot he'd buried Claire. Idiot. I knew if I did, I would totally kill the relaxed company we were enjoying right then, so I kept my mouth shut and continued walking.

Layton chuckled. "Quite right. That was always Claire's favorite quality of it as well," he said, looking away from the path and staring out at the Thames. I gulped. Why did I always seem to be reminding him of Claire? He shook his head after a moment. "Forgive me. I'm always rambling on about her, aren't I?" he apologized, looking back at the path once more.

I was tempted to agree, but that wouldn't have helped any. "Well, it's normal to talk a lot about what you care about, right?" I said, kicking a pebble off the path and into the surrounding grass.

He remained thoughtful. "Yes, but Claire has been dead for ten years now."

"Doesn't change the fact that you love her, professor."

He smiled at that. "I suppose not," he conceded, closing his eyes for a moment. I sighed heavily. I'm sure Claire was a lovely person and all, but wasn't it time for someone else to get a shot at him?

Layton gave me a slightly worried glance. "Is everything alright, my boy?" I cringed. No matter how many times I've told myself otherwise, the fact remains that the way he calls me 'my boy' is very attractive, in my honest opinion. Insert mental facepalm here.

"Oh, it's nothing, I'm just a little tired," I smiled as best I could.

He chuckles. "Tired of all this walking, I presume? I've had my fill of it as well. We're coming up on the bus stop in a few minutes, anyway," he said, looking at his wrist. He frowned and turned his attention to me once again. "Er, sorry, but what time is it?" he asked, slightly apprehensive.

I checked my wristwatch. "Almost half past eight," I said, pulling my sleeve back down.

He smiled once again. "Good. There's one more thing I'd like to do, and then we'll do the obvious," he hints, slightly speeding up his pace. I do the same, wondering idly what he could possibly be referring to.

—**e—n—d—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**

**A/N: I don't know what the plural of 'no' is Dx**

**As said above, this is part one of two for the epilogue. I wanted it to be a single chapter length (around four thousand words is my average so far, not counting chapter one), but then I realized it would be a lot longer than anticipated… And sorry to those who don't like Layton/Luke. I had to throw it in, couldn't help it. Though Luke's like eighteen now so it isn't all that bad anymore : 3**

**And there were like a dozen different ways I could have written this, but this was my favorite option, and I hope you guys like it too T3T**


	5. Epilogue Pt 2

_**A/N: I really am sorry for the delay! I've actually been writing this on and off for like two and a half weeks, just pretty slowly. But because of that delay, you get an extra-long ending! The word count before my stupid author's notes is 7.2k. Awesome. Oh, and before we start, **__**there is Layton/Luke here,**__** mostly at the end. It's really light, but yeah.**_

_**If I owned Professor Layton, this wouldn't be fanfiction, it'd be canon.**_

—**s—t—a—r—t—c—h—a—p—t —e—r—**

The ride to our next destination was longer than the last, but it still wasn't all that long either. We both sat in the seat silently, side by side. But it wasn't an awkward silence. The Professor was content to sit and stare out the window at his beloved London streets, and as long as he was content with an absence of conversation, I was too.

Once we reached our destination, however, I was spurred into speaking. "...the impound lot?" I observed quizzically as we stepped off the bus. The professor looked down at me (not that I was that short, mind you, I was only about two inches shy of his height) and smiled.

"But of course, my boy. Although the buses are nice, I prefer a different mode of transportation," he said lightly as we walked toward the main building of the lot. It looked slightly worn down, with it's metallic roof harboring a healthy coat of rust, but the door looked nice and new and opened like a dream, allowing the duo we formed entry.

The inside was clean enough. There were a few chairs lining the walls, an old T.V. up in the corner opposite them, and a snack machine to the left. Past all these, further into the room, was a brown counter where a burly, muscle-bound man sat, quietly working on something. When he heard the door open he looked up, and when he saw us he smiled warmly.

"'Ello there! Welcome t' the lot!" he greeted, a lot more politely than I would have thought, coming from a big lug like him. "My name's Sid. What c'n I do fer you fine fellows?" he asked, pushing what he was working on to the side.

Layton tipped his hat to the man. "Hello there," he greeted in return, "I'm here to pick up an automobile, actually."

Sid laughed. "If that's the case, then you've come to the right place, mate!" he said, swerving around in his chair to face the computer on his right side. He punched in a few things before continuing. "I'll need yer name, for starters."

The professor proceeded to take a slip of paper out of his pocket. "Of course, my good man. My name is Hershel Layton. Actually, I have a paper here with me that might explain the situation a bit," he spoke, holding said paper out to Sid, who took it and examined it for a minute.

I saw his face lose it's jolliness fast. "...I see," he said, his voice softer than before. Layton looked slightly embarrassed. Hence I was able to conclude that that slip of paper probably had something to do with his release from the asylum. Sid returned the paper, and Layton hastily put it back into his pocket. He busied himself typing away on his keyboard, and I couldn't help but be kind of excited.

The professor had a car? What kind of car was it? What color was it? Would he let me drive it? Well, no, that last question was stupid—I didn't even have a drivers license. Father never let me use his car, so I always took the bus, meaning there was never a real reason for me to get one.

Sid stopped his typing and handed Layton a set of keys he'd gotten from a drawer next to his desk. "It's been a full ten years, so if it doesn't wanna start, don't be too surprised, alright?" Sid said, smiling. I couldn't tell if he was being serious or jocular with the comment.

Layton returned his smile. "Will do. Thank you much, sir," he tipped his hat one last time before departing toward the other door that lead out to the actual lot. I said my thanks as well and followed suit.

Once outside, we walked around, trying to locate the car according to a number on the set of keys Sid had given the professor. While we were walking down the seemingly endless rows of cars (a surprising amount, to say the least), I tried to ask him about the car.

"What kind of car is it?" I asked.

His eyes sparkled, and he chuckled. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see, hmm?" was his only response. I huffed childishly and turned away, making him chuckle again.

"You're no fun."

A few minutes later we realized that the car wasn't outside at all. It was located in a special building that housed other cars staying for pre-determined long periods of time. And as soon as I'd stepped in, before the professor could even glance at it to confirm my suspicions, I knew I'd found it.

The shiny, mellow orange body is what first caught my attention. It was boxy and rather big; bigger than the average car, anyway. The headlights were big and shiny, protruding from the front like big mushrooms from the forest floor. It was quite an odd-looking thing, but the professor beamed.

"My dear Shelby!" he said, with all the feeling of greeting an old friend. I stared blankly. The car's name was... Shelby?

"Sh-_Shelby_?" I repeated, completely taken aback. The professor turned to me, still smiling.

"Yes, Luke. This is my trusty automobile, Shelby."

A moment of silence. My mouth curved into a frown and I covered my face, looking away sharply. He visibly tensed. "Luke...?" he trailed off, looking even more surprised when my body started to shake. I really did try to hold it in, but I just couldn't take it, my eyes were watering.

He looked somewhat relieved when my hand flew off my mouth with the force of my laughter. I could hardly breathe, I was laughing so hard. Even with my arms holding my sides, I was still afraid my sides would fall off with the force of it all. The professor's expression was best described as a pout as he stared at me outlandishly.

"Ahahah! Shelby! Th-that's so funny..." I trailed off, trying to catch my breath once I had finally stopped laughing. He didn't seem to agree with me.

"What's wrong with Shelby? It's a perfectly acceptable name," he frowned, opening the car's driver door and inspecting the inside.

Regaining my composure, I walked over to where he was. "Nothing against it, really, I've just always found that name so hilarious," I said, peering inside as well.

It was nice and clean inside, just as you'd expect. There were a few coins in the cup holders, and a few pamphlets scatters around on the passenger seat, but other than that it was pretty empty. The seats were a dark brown color, a bit darker than the Professor's own hair. The car's clock time matched my wristwatch's time: a quarter past nine.

"Well, this is a bit odd," the professor spoke, stroking his hairless chin thoughtfully.

"What is?" I asked, not seeing anything too out of the ordinary. "Did someone knock those pamphlets off the dashboard or something?"

He shook his head. "No, no. Think, my boy," he encouraged, glancing at me. "It's been ten years. What would you expect this automobile to look like based on that?"

Normally a serious glance like that would send a (good) shiver down my spine, but my interest was piqued. I thought for a moment. "It'd look all dusty and worn down, I suppose," I thought aloud.

"Precisely," he confirmed.

Before he could go on, it clicked in my mind. "Come to think of it, your car isn't at all dusty... You'd think you just drove it yesterday! I wonder what that means..."

He chuckled. "It means someone's been taking good care of my automobile," he said as he slid into the seat, pushing the key into it's slot. "Well, let's see if you still run as well as you used to," he laughed before turning the key. I jumped when the engine successfully came to life, whirring like it'd only been driven hours before.

Layton's smile didn't look particularly surprised. "Well, shall we?" he suggested, motioning for me to climb into the passenger seat. I smiled before darting to the other side and climbing into the seat. With the slam of the door and a couple clicks of our seat belts, we were on our way out. Sid had been kind enough to open the warehouse's big door for us, so all we had to do was drive out and up to the main street to exit.

We sat there for a few minutes in silence; Layton was getting back into the whole driving thing, and I was watching him curiously, not knowing how to drive myself. He kept switching a little knob around while he was steering, which I thought was a little weird. That's probably just me being ignorant again though. After a couple of minutes, something popped into my head.

"I guess we're going to 'do the obvious' now, right?"

The car slowed to a halt at a stoplight. The professor winked at me. "Indeed. Have you a guess as to what that might mean?" he asked.

A few dirty thoughts popped into my mind at that statement, I'll admit, which is why my checks reddened slightly. But I thought about it hard, and I came up with something more than just lusty ideals. "Your house?"

I was relieved when he nodded. "Exactly. Who wouldn't want to visit their abode after ten years of 'extended vacation'?" he laughed as the light turned green. He stepped on the gas and we were off again.

I shifted nervously in my seat. If that was the case, then it was now or never. If I didn't, he would forget about it. Hell, he probably thought I was joking, but I had been far from it at the time. I had good reasons anyway, and I was more than willing to do whatever it took to pay off the debt. So ask already, dammit!

"So, professor..." I started lamely. "Have you thought about my, er... proposition?" I asked, keeping my tone as casual as possible.

His expression flitted through a few different phases, from attentive to pensive and finally to somber recognition. "Ah, yes..." he trailed off thoughtfully.

Well, at least he was considering it. That was a good sign.

He sighed. "Hmm... Well, I don't know," he said honestly. My face fell. "What would your father say?"

"It doesn't matter," I cut in quickly, bitterness in my voice, although not directed at the professor. "He wouldn't care. Hell, I bet fifty pounds he wouldn't even notice for weeks!" I crossed my arms a bit childishly. "Besides, I'm eighteen. It's my decision, not his."

He 'hmm'ed again. "I suppose that's right..."

"Exactly. And I'd be willing to take up all the chores, and pay some kind of rent too!" I added fervently. "It wouldn't be for long either, just until I can find a place closer so I can commute more efficiently..."

He chuckled. "Nothing of the sort would be necessary. As long as you're sure, I don't mind at all." He paused here. "But there is one thing you must keep up with," he said, glancing at me seriously.

I gulped. "What might that be?"

"Your marks."

At this, my heart soared. I had the stupidest grin on my face, but I couldn't help it. "Of course!" I chirped happily.

He allowed himself as small smile too. "Yes, but there is the matter of going to pick up your things..."

_-asdfjkl;-_

It was a long drive. I lived pretty far away from the central London area, about an hour or so out. I had told him to just drop me off at a bus stop and go on without me, but he wouldn't have it.

"Shelby needed a good workout anyway," he reasoned as we made our way back from my-no, no, not my, my father's house.

I began to crack up again. "Pfff... Shelby..." I giggled, causing him to frown at me.

"If you're going to keel over laughing every time I say it, we might as well rename her."

I ceased my laughter. "Huh? Really?" I asked, kind of incredulously. "You don't have to, just for me..."

He shrugged. "I'm sure you can fabricate something better."

At first I felt kind of guilty. Had I really forced him to renaming his beloved car? Then again, he wouldn't just do that if anyone else had laughed. He was a kind man, to be sure, but not that nice. Guilt replaced with determination, I searched my mind for any kind of good name for a car in my mind.

We drove along for a good while longer, silent save for the soft music Layton had playing. It sounded orchestrated, and had no words, just instruments playing together in catchy harmony. In the middle of a nice violin solo, the name hit me like a tsunami. I blurted it out as soon as my tongue would wrap around the syllables.

"Laytonmobile!" I exclaimed triumphantly. The professor was a bit startled by my sudden outburst, but quickly laughed at the name I had come up with. I felt a bit flustered.

"Laytonmobile, was it?" he clarified, still chuckling. "I must say, it's quite original. We'll see how it sticks," he approved lightly. I smiled.

"Yes, and when I get a car, I'll name mine the Tritonmobile, okay?" I joked as we drove back into the more central part of London. He nodded, still smiling, but said nothing else.

_-asdfjkl;-_

I could tell when we got near where Layton's residence was located. He visibly tensed, stopped the meager conversation we'd been having, and his movements were fluid and decisive; he knew exactly where he was going, as if it was ingrained into his mind (which it probably was).

I could feel his anxiety, though I couldn't really understand it. He was going home. What was there to be apprehensive of? Surely nothing of great importance would have happened. Maybe he was afraid of a robbery? I guess an abandoned house would be a good target to mischievous wrong-doers.

He had slowed to a crawl on a certain street; this must be it, I thought, a bit anxiously. I wondered curiously what it would look like. With the professor's personality, I guessed a tad old-fashioned. Which didn't bother me at all; I liked old-fashioned things too. They felt warm and familiar to me.

The Laytonmobile stopped at an intersection, in front of a rather large, antique-like house. I was right; it was old, but in a cozy-looking way. The windows were all intact, and the door looked sturdy enough, so the robbery possibility was eliminated. The flower beds were, to my surprise, vibrant and lively; there were sunflowers and tulips and a few lilies growing in them next to a couple of lush, green bushes. Someone had obviously been taking care of those.

We both unbuckled our seat belts, but neither of us made any move to get out. He was looking at the planting beds as well. "Well, well, it looks like old Mrs. Carole still lives around here," he observed with an amused tone. When he saw my confused stare, he elaborated. "Mrs. Carole is a lovely woman who has two very green thumbs. She took it upon herself to upkeep her neighbors flowers for them if they wanted her to or not, and by the looks of things, she's still up to it," he smiled at the memory of her. "I'll have to thank her when I get a chance."

I looked back at the flowers. "I see..." I said, trying to picture this woman in my head. A generic sweet old lady holding a watering can came into my mind, and I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "That's sweet of her."

"Indeed," was his response. We sat there for a few more moments, the professor probably retrospective, thinking about all those things you think about upon release from an asylum (not that I knew, though. I only had a few fair guesses) and I staring at the car door's handle, wanting desperately to examine Layton's house, to get to know more about the enigmatic man. Sure, I knew your basic stuff; his 'madness', his favorite drinks, his love of puzzles, his chosen profession of archaeology. But all those little things, like what time he went to bed, what T.V. Programs (if any) he watched, any hobbies besides puzzles, what he usually wore... I wanted to know it all, even any odd fetish that he might have.

I was relieved and even more anxious when he finally made a move to get up. There was a loud slam as our doors simultaneously shut, and in a matter of seconds we stood at his doorstep. He'd already had the key in his hand before he stepped out of the car, so I watched as he gently slid it into the keyhole and turned it to the left. For a moment, I thought that maybe the key wasn't the right key, because it didn't appear to want to turn. But when the professor tried again, I heard the lock click back into the door submissively. His hand gripped the handle for a few moments longer than necessary, giving it a pensive stare, as if wondering whether opening the door was such a good idea after all. He either decided that it was or just plain told himself 'to Hell with it', because he turned the knob and pulled the door open anyway.

The first thing I did was sneeze.

A fair amount of dust came out at us when the door was opened, which was my excuse. It also made Layton cough a bit.

"—My word," he managed once his cough died down and he'd told me 'bless you'.

I waved my hands in front of my face to dispel any remaining dust particles. "What a lovely greeting," I said with a little half-smile.

"Quite," he agreed, placing a hand on his head. "No doubt I should have expected it, but so much?" he asked, slightly exasperated. "I'd no idea how much dust could accumulate in a matter of ten years..."

I took a peek of my own into the house. The foyer was nice, a wooden table on the side with a few white candles on it. A few pictures hung on the auburn walls, depicting people I didn't know (presumably family members). Yes, it was all quite nice aside from the fact that everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. My nose throbbed; dust and I weren't the best of friends, if you get my point.

The professor was the first one to step over the threshold. I almost followed suit before I realized that I'd left my suitcase in the Laytonmobile. "Ehh...Professor, I'll be right there," I said, taking a step back towards his car. He turned to give me a questioning stare. "I left my suitcase in the Laytonmobile," I said, making sure to emphasize my well-thought name before turning back around and walking toward the orange vehicle.

I opened the backseat door and glanced inside, only to groan in frustration when I saw it had come undone on the way here, my clothes and other important possessions laying strewn across the dark brown interior. I leaned over and began to gather everything up and stuff it all back into the ajar case. So intently was I doing this that I didn't even notice a middle-aged woman standing behind me until I'd turned around to face her unknowingly.

"Hwah!" My face jutted back a few inches in surprise. She didn't seem at all fazed, though; the smile never left her face.

"Hahah! Sorry, lad, didn't mean to scare you any!" she laughed. Her voice was strong and firm. "I was just wondering if the former resident, Hershel Layton, was moving back in. But you," she paused, pointing at me as if there was someone else who I might have mistaken the comment for, "aren't him."

I straightened up, clearing my throat a bit. "Well, you're right about that ma'am; I'm not the professor. But he is inside."

She gasped. "Oh my! Is that so?" she said, looking at me up and down, making me feel slightly self-conscious. "I didn't know Layton had a child. One old enough to be in college to boot!" she laughed.

I opened my mouth to contradict her words, but I couldn't come up with anything better to say. So what if she thought I was his son? So I just changed the subject. "Are you a friend of his? D'you want me to tell him you're here to visit?"

She laughed again. "Oh no, that's fine. Wouldn't want to bother him while he's settling back in, now would I?" She shook her head. "No, it's fine. But you can tell him that Annabelle said hello. Hopefully he remembers me!" she said before walking back in the direction she'd come from (or so I thought.) Before she crossed the street, though, she stopped and turned around again. "By the way, what's your name?" she asked.

"Luke," I answered, leaving out my surname on purpose.

She smiled. "Luke Layton, hm? Kinda just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?" she laughed, and I smiled wryly. Luke Layton... Not bad. "Anyway, goodbye, Luke!" she called me a farewell before crossing the street. I gave her a small wave before closing the Laytonmobile's door and taking my suitcase back inside.

I noticed that someone had dusted off the table in the foyer as I walked past it. There were also some things in what I assumed was the living room that were also oddly not covered in dust, like the television, the coffee table, a few vases and other knickknacks like that. Most everything was a shade of brown in this house, save for a few decorative things here and there. For the most part, I liked what Layton had done with the place.

Speaking of the professor, he was standing in the kitchen, dusting off the stove with a damp washcloth. When he heard me approaching, he turned toward me with a trademark smile. "I see you found it. Took you long enough, hm?" he said with a chuckle.

I faked a laugh. "Ahahahaha- no. For your information, I was chatting with one of your neighbors. A Miss Annabelle?" I said, watching his face for traces of recognition.

His face brightened when I said it. "Oho! So Annabelle still lives here? Interesting," he laughed, giving the stovetop one last wipe before considering it clean enough for the time being. "Annabelle is another of the neighborhood ladies. She loves to bake, and I was one of her favorite taste-testers," he smiled fondly. "It was always delicious, of course."

I frowned a little. The women in this neighborhood were all over him! Though I really can't blame them all that much. I turned my frown into a satirical smile. "Well, aren't you just the ladies man," I chortled, watching his face redden slightly.

He shook his head. "Come now, Luke. Annabelle is married," he responded with a chuckle of his own.

"Yes, maybe she was back then, but what about now? It's been ten years, you know," I said in a mock-non-chalant manner, giving him a dramatic shrug. "I don't remember seeing a ring on her finger either..." I nudged him suggestively.

He looked like a cross between exasperated and amused. "I doubt it. She and Bill were quite fond of each other," he said as he picked up a pile of washcloths from next to the kitchen sink. "Now, time to prove your worth. Take these into your room and start dusting things off. Don't worry about the bed sheets, I'll take care of those later," he instructed lightly, handing me the pile and pointing me toward a flight of stairs a few feet away. "Unless I'm mistaken, the guest room is the second on the left."

I saluted him, washcloths in hand. "Sir, yes sir! Right away sir!" I shouted before walking toward the staircase, smiling warmly at the barely-audible chuckle I'd coaxed from him.

Once I was up the stairs, I looked around. The hallway was a bit narrow, but it was long, and it followed the same warm brown scheme as the rest of the house. The first doorway to my left didn't have any doors. Instead, it was open, allowing me to see the cozy-looking room beyond it. It had a big brown desk and a big gray couch, with a couple of matching love seats in two different corners. The wall opposite of the doorway and I had a huge window, making the room very bright and welcoming. However, this was the first room to the left (no beds in sight, anyway, looked more like a study), so I kept going until I reached the door a few feet forward.

It was a bit shocking when I first opened the door. I'd expected the room to be primarily brown like all the others I'd seen so far, but that wasn't the case. The room was painted a soft blue color, almost matching the shade of my sweater and hat. A desk, a chair, and a simple blue dresser lined the right wall, and to the left was a bed with matching blue sheets and comforter. A few pictures were hung, too, though of what I couldn't exactly see, because everything was covered in dust, just like everything else in the house. Even so, I was impressed.

I carefully set my suitcase on the floor by the door and piled the washcloths up on top of it. Grabbing one from the top, I decided to start with the dresser, since I had to put my things there. But when I started wiping, the dust flew everywhere, causing me to sneeze twice.

"Bless you!" The professor's voice was faint, but audible.

I yelled my thanks back at him and turned back to the task at hand. This wasn't going to work if I kept doing it this way, was it? I remembered Layton's cloth being damp, so, deciding that was a good place to start, I walked out to do some dampening.

Luckily, the door almost directly opposite mine in the hallway was a bathroom, which was brown and green themed. Careful not to get the cloth too wet, I turned the faucet a very small amount and ended up with a cloth fit for heavy-duty dusting.

Returning to the room, I wiped experimentally again. It worked like a champ; No dust decided to spontaneously fly up into my nose, and it removed a bunch of it at a time. The only downside was the fact that by the time I'd gotten done with half the dresser, the cloth was too disgusting to use anymore. I guess that's why the professor had handed me a big pile; he's always thinking ahead.

With a few more rags I'd been able to successfully clean the dresser as well as the desk on the other wall. After coming back from that bathroom for the fourth time, damp cloth in hand, I decided to try dusting some of the pictures on the wall. I took the one on the wall nearest the door down and wiped a few times. I was pleasantly amused to find that it was a picture of the professor when he was very small, perhaps four or five. It appeared to be Christmas, and he was holding a baseball glove in his hand and smiling the biggest, toothiest grin I'd ever seen. I chuckled to myself and continued to clean it.

I was in the middle of dusting another picture, this one of a woman I presumed to be his mother, when I heard the sound of glass shattering come from downstairs. It made me jump, but thankfully my hold on the photo was sufficient. Thinking about it briefly, I had decided to just let the professor deal with it. He was a big boy, after all; I'd probably just get in the way somehow. But when I heard a muffled cry, I got worried.

"Professor?" I called as I walked out of the room rather slowly. He didn't respond. When I got to the stairs, I heard another almost whimper-like sound. I sped up as I went down the stairs.

"Professor? Are you alright?" I tried again when I got the first floor. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary in the kitchen, so I proceeded to the living room. "Professor, where—" I was cut short by the sight in front of me when I rounded the corner.

He was kneeling on the floor, the professor was. There was a myriad of little glass shards lying around him, and he was holding a broken frame and photo. The odd thing was, he was crying.

I hurried over to him, wondering if some of the glass had cut him. "Ehhm, Professor... Are you okay?" I asked softly when I'd reached his side. I didn't see any blood, so that was always a good sign. But why was he crying then?

Crying is a bit of an understatement, though. He was downright sobbing, his body shaking uncontrollably as the tears flowed down his face. I tried to comfort him by rubbing his back, but he flinched away and gave me a wide-eyed stare, as if just noticing me for the first time.

"Wh-what...?" he said shakily, his hands trembling. He looked from me down to the photo he was holding, and just the sight of it sent him into hysterics. When I put my hand on his back again experimentally, he didn't flinch back again, so I started to rub it again. Worried and nervous, I looked at the photo.

It was a woman. She had long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, leaving some her bangs out to rest lazily on her forehead. She was smiling the sweetest, truest smile I'd ever seen and wore some thin glasses. And she just so happened to be wearing a white lab coat and a small, shining ring.

Oh dear lord, it _couldn't_ be.

My heart dropped when I realized who she was. I had to give her credit; she was beautiful, and if she was as nice as the professor had made her out to be, then it was no wonder he fell in love with her.

"Cl-Claire..." he whispered, his head bowed deeply. I put a hand on his forearm and leaned a little closer to him.

"Hey, it's okay," I said, almost inaudibly. I squeezed his arm lightly as I did so. "It's alright. Everything's going to be okay."

He jerked up, knocking my from my crouching position to my butt with a small thump. He glared at me, almost accusingly, an expression that didn't suit the professor at all. "'It's going to be alright?' Do you really think I can believe that?" he whispered vehemently. His grip on the broken frame tightened. "She's _dead_. Claire's dead, and I couldn't do anything about it."

All the while, I was shocked. I'd never seen him this emotional before. The only time that even came close was the first day we met, four years ago. The same day he'd claimed that he was over all this. I sat up and grabbed his arm again, my expression turned serious. "Exactly! None of this is your fault, you couldn't have known..." I trailed off. It was supposed to be comforting, but I guess I failed at that, because his tears started to flow again.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he said, a melancholy tone to his voice. He stared at the photo dejectedly, dropping the frame altogether. "That madhouse spelled out everything I did, but now..." he also trailed off, leaving behind a heavy silence.

"You can't stop living your life just because she's gone," I said gently. "You have things to live for, Professor. You got your job back, remember? You still have to thank those nice ladies, you still have a nice house and car..."

"It doesn't feel the same, not without her, knowing she's gone," he whispered. He placed the picture on the ground and buried his face in his hands. "I don't know if I can keep going."

"But you can," I said, determined to make him see the brighter side of the situation. "And you don't have to do it alone. I'll be here. Mrs. Carole, Mrs. Annabelle, Dean Delmona, they'll all be there too." He didn't say anything in response, just rubbing his face slowly with his hands. He suddenly looked his age, maybe even a few years older.

I tried something a bit bold. And perhaps I could've worded it a little better, because looking back on it now, it did seem a tad insensitive. "Claire wouldn't want you to be sitting here, feeling sorry for yourself, now would she?" I said, intending it to be motivational and comforting.

Bad move. Very bad move. He froze for a moment, and then lowered his hands from his face, giving me one of the most malevolent glares I had ever seen ever. I never thought I would say this, but I felt kind of scared. Maybe, deep down inside, he really _was_ mad?

"You have absolutely no right to speak to me _or_ of Claire like that," he hissed dangerously. "It isn't self-pity that I feel right now. It's remorse. It's anguish. It's..." he paused for a moment, thinking of the right word. "...hopelessness." He looked away, the sorrow back on his face.

I was left with no words for a moment. "Professor..." was all I could manage. Feeling all those emotions after so long... He really, truly loved her. I couldn't compete with that.

A few tears rolled down his cheek. "I just... I only want..." he kept trailing off, appearing to be lost for words. Then, so quickly it was scary, his face twisted in heated anger. "Why did it have to be Claire? _Why?_!" he yelled, his head looking up toward the ceiling, glaring poison daggers at the sky.

I felt extremely out of place, sitting there and watching him sob his broken heart out. I didn't like seeing the professor like that. But what was I supposed to do? "...They say everything happens for a reason," I said softly. "They don't mention the reason's being good or bad though..."

He wasn't listening to me. "What did she ever do to deserve something like this...?" he wailed angrily, his hands curled into whitening fists.

"She didn't do anything to deserve such a punishment, professor, I'm sure!"

And again my comforting words were ignored. "I just... I can't stand this feeling of being so helpless and useless!" he proclaimed through his teeth. His shoulders had started to shake dangerously.

"Professor..." I nearly whined, feeling completely useless myself. Why wouldn't he just listen? Scooting closer and ignoring the potentially dangerous shards of glass, I wrapped my arms around his middle and pulled myself close in a warm hug. He froze. I half expected him to push me away, but when he didn't make any move to do so, I laid my chin on his shoulder, which had stopped shaking, gently. "You're neither useless nor helpless," I murmured quietly. "You're one of the strongest, if not the most, people I've ever met."

I know he heard me that time; his body stiffened slightly in response. He just chose not to dignify it with a verbal answer. I felt him shake his head. "I... I just, I would give anything to find out what would have happened... Where I might've ended up, what we would be doing, where we would go..."

He kept going on and on about it, babbling like a brook. All the what-ifs and maybe-thats and could-have-beens. He really needed to shut up and just _be_ for awhile, to reflect and relax and just breathe. _Oh, screw it, I'm probably going to hell anyway_, I thought with a mental shrug.

Since my arms were busy hugging him and I really wanted him to keep quiet for a second, I leaned back up straight and quickly brought my lips up to his in a quick, silencing kiss. It lasted for about three seconds, but it still basically shattered everything we'd built up over the past four years. It was wrong and I knew it, but it felt so _right_, even better than I'd imagined. My lips wiggled against his own slightly, making his freeze instantaneously. But he didn't pull away. I figured he was too shocked to move.

I pulled back slowly. As afraid as I was to meet his gaze, I looked up at him anyway. He looked downright jolted, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide, as if he couldn't believe what had just occurred. I gave him a small sheepish smile before looking down, feeling slightly awkward. "Well, I probably shouldn't have done that," I said apologetically, resting my head on his shoulder again. "But you just need to calm down, okay? It's gonna be alright, I'm sure of it."

I braced myself for the disgusted shove I would no doubt be receiving momentarily. But to my elated surprise, none came. Instead, Layton slowly relaxed, resting his arms lightly against my own back. I had to suppress a shudder of pleasure. I shifted my head until it was lying on his shoulder like a pillow and started to rub his back slowly and softly. He tightened his hold on me just a tad.

We sat like that for a long time, not talking, not moving, not even thinking, just being and listening to each other's breathing idly. He'd calmed down significantly, so I suppose I should have ended the hug, but he was so warm and comfortable. And he smelled good, slightly musky and foreign but welcome to my nose.

"Luke," he said suddenly, his voice making his chest reverberate against my own. "I... I don't know what came over me just then," he muttered, shifting his arms around a bit rather guiltily. "I apologize."

I laughed. His body tensed slightly in confusion. "Professor, you know as well as I do that being sad is nothing to be ashamed of," I countered lightly, my head not moving from it's spot on the professor's shoulder.

There was a pause before he chuckled. "I suppose," he agreed lightly. After a few moments, he made moves to get up, much to my dismay. We untangled ourselves from each other, myself a bit begrudgingly. He stood up carefully, motioning for me to do the same. "I should probably clean up this mess before someone gets hurt," he said with a small frown.

A few minutes later we were both on the floor, picking up as many glass shards as we could find. Layton had told me not to bother and just let him do it as it was his fault, but I insisted. As they say, four hands are faster than two.

We were silent for a little bit, but after a while the professor decided to break the silence. "There's still something gnawing at me, though, Luke," he began tentatively.

I continued to pick up little clear pieces of glass. "What's that?" I asked absent-mindedly.

"...That kiss back there."

My hand froze. I had somewhat hoped that he would either forget that happened or shrug it off, but I suppose I should've been thankful he hadn't, because I wouldn't have been able to forget. Ever. "O-oh yeah..." I trailed off lamely.

"I was just wondering what I should do," he went on, resuming his cleaning as if we were just chatting about the weather non-chalantly. "Do I forget it happened?"

I sat there for a minute, watching him incredulously. He was asking me what I thought he should do? Well, if that was the case, why not tell him the truth? No going back to the relationship we had before, anyway, no matter how hard we tried. "Well," I began hesitantly, picking up glass once more, "What if I said we should just... Accept it?" I said, keeping my gaze away from his face.

He didn't falter; that was probably the answer he had been expecting anyway. "And do it a few more times while we're at it," he chuckled grimly.

My cheeks reddened slightly. "That'd be nice..." I murmured softly.

It was then that he finally paused and looked at me. Wanting to show him that I was serious, I looked at him as well. His expression was most puzzling. He wasn't disgusted. He wasn't confused. He didn't even look very surprised. What he did look, though, was unsure. "You do realize that I'm old enough to be your father," he stated bluntly, "right?"

I was tempted to roll my eyes. "Yes, professor, I know," I answered seriously. "You're thirty-nine. And I'm eighteen, which means I'm legal now. I..." I paused here, looking away, "I know it's wrong, but it's something that I want, and that kiss proved it." I swallowed nervously and met his eyes again. "If you find that disgusting, that's alright," I lied, because I knew very well that I probably wouldn't be okay if the professor just brushed me off like some annoying kid (which I probably was, to him), "but that's my answer."

He sat there, looking at me for a few more minutes before standing up and taking his bag of collected hazardous glass with him to the kitchen. "It isn't that that I'm all that worried about," he said, placing the bag on the counter and letting his arms fall to his sides. "I just don't know if you're truly serious or ready. I'm a professor at the university you'll be attending if a few weeks, for God's sake..." he trailed off, unable to meet my eyes.

I stood up myself and walked over to where he was standing. "Professor, I've felt this was for a long time, at least two years," I reasoned, placing my bag next to his. "I doubt it's some kind of crush that'll just go away. And I won't even have you as a teacher! No harm, no foul," I said, looking up at him matter-of-factly.

He looked back at me with half-lidded eyes. He seemed tired. "If you're positive that it's something you'd want..." he paused for a moment, coming up with the right words. "I... Well, I'll think about it. I do care for you, I just... don't know if it's like that or not." He relented, facing me squarely now. "Just give me some time."

I smiled, jubilant that he'd even considered considering something like this. "That's all I'm asking for, Hershel," I said warmly, watching his eyes widen in surprise at my use of his first name. I chuckled. "Too soon?"

He chuckled himself, taking the two bags into his hands to dispose of them properly somewhere outside. "It's fine with me," he replied with a smile of his own.

I began opening the duty cabinets, searching for a teapot of some sort. There was a strange lightness in my movements now, as if all my worries and stresses had been lifted away into the sky. I relaxed, and even though the future was uncertain, I was as happy as I'd ever been.

Everything really _was_ going to be okay, because we had each other.

_-asdfjkl;-_

_**A/N: Bawwww Layton D: Sorry if he was OOC there.**_

_**And there we have it. That's the real ending, mind you. What a cliffie… Does Layton end up loving Luke back? Or do they just continue being close friends? Well, that's for you to decide! I like to think they end up together though, cause I'm just a fangirl like that |D**_

_**Hope you all enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks for reading, and reviews are still welcome!**_

—**e—n—d—f—i—c—t—i—o—n—**


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